The Broken Man
by katkin
Summary: John Watson was, and is once again, a broken man.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC own 'Sherlock Holmes' and 'Sherlock'.

* * *

Baker Street was calm. It was 3am. A wintery breeze moved the night air, and felt like mild relief against John's tired, raw face. The ambulance driver that had accompanied him home put out his hand to steady him, and he jerked his shoulder away unnecessarily.

"I'm fine," he mumbled to his chest. He clenched his jaw, a ringing tinnitus continued in his ears.

"Is there anyone in to look after you?" the driver was asking. John pushed down an angry retort, and simply nodded. The door bell was rung, and the hall light flashed on. In the doorway stood Mrs Hudson, dressed in a purple dressing gown, her face pale with worry and fatigue. The woman let out a gasp as John shuffled forwards.

"Oh my Lord," she exclaimed, throwing her arms around the man who stood there on the doorstep, stiffly. "Thank goodness you're alright. Thank you, thank you," she called after the driver, who'd already begun to slink off. The door closed heavily and John stood there rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on the staircase ahead of him. Silence enveloped him, but for the ringing in his ears which became deafening. Through the ringing, he could hear Mrs Hudson, rambling incoherently. He tried to take a step forward and failed. His legs didn't want to be moved, and his heart couldn't bring himself to climb those stairs.

"I can't..."

Nausea began to grow in his stomach, and his legs became weak. He'd been fighting this since the hospital, since the scene in fact, but one look at the black front door with shining silver numerals on it, and the stairway that led to his life, _their_ life, was too much for John to bear. His vision blurred.

An unfamiliar sound suddenly filled his ears, and it took him a brief moment to realise that it was coming from himself. A gut-wrenching sob forced its way out from deep within him, and his legs gave way from underneath him. He slumped there on the floor, gasping for breath in between sobs, pain searing through his entire torso from the broken ribs he'd received that evening. John felt Mrs Hudson crouch down to the floor beside him, and she scooped him into her lap with surprising strength.

John couldn't tell how long they sat there on the floor in the hall way. The sky began to lighten through the window above the front door. He could feel Mrs Hudson's fingers stroking his matted hair, and offering words of comfort. _It's alright. It'll be ok. You're safe now._

John wanted to scream. He was _far_ from alright, and things were definitely _not_ going to be ok. His lungs were burning and he couldn't get the words from his mind to his lips, so he remained there sobbing on the floor.

A broken man.

* * *

It was 6:03 am, when John roused on the sofa, his face stiff from dried tears. A blanket had been placed over him, and it had bunched around his knees. He tried to clear his throat. He had no recollection of moving upstairs, though he must have made it up somehow. Mrs Hudson, though a wondrous woman, was certainly incapable of carrying a man up the stairs. John's eyes scanned the flat. It remained untouched since he'd left it the previous evening.

_Milk, we need milk._

_I'll get some._

_Really?_

_Really._

_And some beans, then?_

_Mm._

It felt like a lifetime ago. Someone else's life, in which buying beans and milk were something of a normal activity. Certainly not the life of Sherlock Holmes. John squeezed his eyes shut. If he could get through the next day without thinking about him he'd be ok. One day at a time. Unfortunately he knew that it was impossible.

A knock came from the sitting room door, making him jump.

"Are you awake, love? Detective Inspector Lestrade's here. He'd like to talk to you."

"No," came the quiet response, and he twisted his body on the sofa, shoulders hunched in a clear message.

"John –"

"I said no," he snapped angrily into the back of the sofa. But of course it was too late, heavy footsteps could be heard clambering up the staircase. There was a shuffling of feet, and Mrs Hudson excused herself from the room. John heard the Inspector stand in the doorway uncomfortably, before making his way to an arm chair. John prayed it was the red chair.

A long silence settled in the room, and John could feel his eyelids become drowsier. There was nothing he'd rather do more than close his eyes and forget about the night before. Forget about the past 3 months. And when his eyes would open it'd be all some terrible, brilliant dream. He'd be in his single bed, in his dark bedsit, and he'd thank the stars that _nothing_ ever happened to him.

A baritone voice tore the reverie apart.

"John..."

The voice was heavy with pity. It made John want to be sick. He swallowed down hard.

"Listen, I know it's hard, but we need any information you've got in order for us to track down the bastard that did this."

John knew, of course, that they had no hope of tracing him. And a part of him couldn't care less. That _man_ had forced his way in, wiped out John's entire life, and disappeared without a trace. John never wanted to hear the name Moriarty again. Lestrade began to grow impatient. He rose from the chair, a growl escaping from the back of his throat.

"God help me, John. I know you're grieving–"

"Did they find the body?" John had turned himself over onto his back, and blinked up to the ceiling. Lestrade was taken aback by the sudden question.

"No," he replied simply. John almost chuckled. Almost.

"No, I didn't think they would. And his brother, Mycroft, he's been informed?"

"Yes, as far as I'm aware."

"Good," John replied and sat up on the sofa, throwing his legs over the edge. "Well that's that then."

Lestrade looked at him baffled. John passed him with relative speed for someone who'd recently been in a trauma, and made his way to the kitchen. He flung open the door to the cupboard underneath the sink and begun to rummage around.

"John...John...For goodness sake, man. I need to talk to you."

"No, you need _me_ to talk to _you_," John corrected, talking into the cupboard. He rose suddenly, bringing out a roll of black plastic bags. Lestrade looked on as John scooped the entire contents of the kitchen table into a black bag. Next, he opened the fridge, and removed what little contents there was, with a mild relief that the garrotted head had somehow disappeared over the past three days. He began to un-peg the pieces of shoe which hung from a line above his head. Carl Powers. Killed 20 years ago and of absolutely no importance to John Watson. John moved from the kitchen, barging Lestrade out of the way. The desk was swept clean with one arm.

"John...John, stop! This is evidence," Lestrade told him, grabbing the man's arm. John pulled away and reached for the laptop on the coffee table. Sherlock Holmes' laptop. It was thrown with force into the black bag.

"No, no it's not. It's all rubbish," John said through gritted teeth. He stopped briefly and regarded the wall above the sofa. Photos of Connie Prince, Carl Powers, news clippings about the lost Vermeer painting, Andrew West's apparent suicide. Photos of the dead. John Watson couldn't help them now and they had certainly been of no help to him. He began to tear at them with his fingers and shoved them without a second glance into the bag.

"John...John...enough now!"

John's face was damp with tears he hadn't even realised he'd shed. He continued to pull at the collage of crime, until the wall was bare. John let out a little sob at what remained in front of him. Mrs Hudson entered the room briskly, a scowl on her face.

"You'd best go. He'll call you when he's feeling better."

The woman began to lead the Inspector out the room, but Lestrade's eyes were fixed on the wall. A smiling face had been painted in fluorescent yellow. John fingered at the holes in the wall, his breathing shuddering under the effort of his crying. He began to pull at the wall paper where it had ripped, and shouted incoherently as the smile was torn apart. Eventually, when John was satisfied that the face had gone, he stopped, and sat himself down heavily on the sofa. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade glanced at each other. John took a deep breath.

"I'd like you to leave," he said quietly at his knees. "Please, just go."

They both stood there agape in the door way.

"I want to be ON MY OWN!" he bellowed at them, and they turned on their heels. "Wait!" he called suddenly, and they stopped to regard him. John moved from the sofa to the fireplace and grabbed the skull from the mantel piece. He looked at it scornfully, and gave a disgruntled laugh before dropping it into the rubbish bag. It made a dull thud which reverberated around the room. John shoved the bag to Lestrade, who took it in his shock. He turned away from the Inspector and lay down on the sofa, grabbing the remote for the television, and thumbing it on. He gave a sniff and cleared his throat.

"Take out the rubbish when you leave."

As John listened to the footsteps fade down the stairs, and the door slamming shut, he closed his eyes and rubbed at them with the heels of his hands. The television filled the silence, but John was not listening. His eyes fell on the grey leather chair in front of him, and his heart broke.

There was no place like home.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you for the positive response I received for the first chapter to this story. I hope I don't disappoint anyone when I say that this is only going to be a short, angsty fic. I'm saving my action/mystery for another Sherlock fic I'm currently working on. I've already written the end to this story already (at 2:30am. It just wouldn't leave me alone!) but there's going to be a few chapters before it reaches its conclusion. I'm really pleased with the ending. I hope you'll stick with it, and see it through.

I really enjoy writing John. God love him! Here he is...

* * *

Three days had passed. John lay dozing on the sofa. His arms were folded across his chest defensively, and his jaw was clenched tightly shut. The air around him was still, and smelled of polish and bleach, and coffee. He blinked his eyes open, and the afternoon light from the window washed over his face. Someone had come the day before to replace the windows which had been shattered in the bombing. John had since run the hoover around twice, and cleaned every surface until it shone. There was nothing out of place. Nothing, except the person sat huddled in the grey arm chair opposite him. When he'd first opened his eyes, his heart had jumped at the very thought of it being _him. _Sherlock. It had, however, been someone else. He let out a disgruntled huff.

Harry.

She had arrived two days ago, and John had so far managed to clean around her and keep his temper in check. She thought she was helping. She was, in fact, getting in his way.

"Get out of the chair," he growled, rubbing at his eyes. His sister looked up from her Heat magazine.

"What?"

"The chair! Get out of that chair." He stressed each word. His sister gave a snort of inconvenience and, instead of moving to the red armchair opposite, slumped herself down heavily on the wooden floor. She continued to read her magazine.

John lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His ribs ached. His head ached. He felt like he was falling apart at the seams. Harry wasn't the one to fix him. Of course she wasn't. John listened to the bouts of silence in between her overly-loud page turning. She cleared her throat. It irritated him. She breathed heavily as she read. That irritated him too.

Harry rose, and stretched her limbs before throwing her magazine down on the floor.

"Pick that up," he muttered, his eyes now closed. Harry flared her nostrils at him.

"Yeah, in a minute."

John's eyes snapped open and he sat up suddenly, glaring at her.

"Not in a minute. Now! I don't want your stuff all over the place. I've spent the past three days tidying up, so pick up your _fucking_ magazine!"

"Jesus, chill out! Dick-head," she drawled before bending down and picking up the magazine. Harry began to stomp into the kitchen. "And for your information, what you've been doing here in this house isn't cleaning. You've gutted it. You need to get your head seen to Jay."

"Piss off!"

John heard her rattling around in the kitchen, looking through the cupboards. He leant forwards, his elbows on his knees, and flattened down his hair with his hands. The doorbell rang downstairs, and John heard Mrs Hudson's slippered feet shuffling to the front door. The woman's voice exchanged pleasantries with the visitor, and John heard feet approaching up the stairs.

"Are you decent, love? You've got a visitor."

John raised his head from his hands, and turned his body to regard the man in the doorway. The tall man entered the room and offered John a warm smile.

"Good afternoon, John."

John rose nervously from the sofa, regarding the man. His dark suit was immaculate, but seemed to hang off him in a way that John hadn't ever noticed before. His pale face appeared gaunt, which John knew was not a result of a diet alone.

"Hello...Mycroft."

He'd almost addressed him as Mr Holmes, but John couldn't bear the thought of the name in his mouth. The men shook hands briefly, and the smile faded from Mycroft's face.

"Uh...Please, take a seat."

John noticed the man studying the choice of arm chairs for a brief moment before choosing the red one. John lowered himself slowly back onto the sofa.

"Can I get you–?"

"You're most kind, but no, thank you. It's just a fleeting visit really. I wanted to see if you were on the mend."

John opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get a word out, his sister beat him to it.

"Who's this?" She stood in the kitchen doorway, a tea towel wringing in her hands. John wanted the sofa to swallow him whole. "No offense, but if you're from the press then he's not interested in talking to you. It's been non-stop aggro for three days now. Have you people no shame?"

Mycroft paused, regarding the young woman in front of him, before rising and offering his hand. His face broke into a warm smile, but his eyes were focussed and dark.

"Very nice to meet you, Ms Watson." Harry blinked at him, before shaking his hand with a wary sniff. "Your brother is a steadfast man. You should be very proud of him."

"He's a git," she replied, but smiled curtly at Mycroft before turning on her heels and heading back to the kitchen.

"So how are you John?" Mycroft asked again, as he sat back down. "Really."

"Fine," John lied. "I'm fine." He cursed himself inside. There was absolutely no point in lying to Mycroft Holmes. The man could see through him like fragile glass.

"Good. That's good," Mycroft replied simply. His tone suddenly changed. "I'm here to inform you of the memorial service that's being held next Wednesday."

"Oh," said John, taken aback.

"The past three days have not been easy John, as I'm sure you are aware, but regardless of his own opinions on the matter, my brother was very dear to me." Mycroft let this statement hang in the air. John realised his mouth hung open, and he snapped his jaw up, clacking his teeth together. He nodded dumbly and Mycroft continued. "I had hoped that you'd do him the honour of speaking at the memorial ser–"

"No." It was Mycroft's turn to look dumbfounded. "Uh...sorry. I mean, thank you. It really means a lot that you would ask. But I'm afraid I can't do that."

Mycroft's puzzled features eventually found their way into his trademark tight smile.

"Of course." He rose from the chair and John did the same. "You will be there though?"

"Yes, I'll be there."

"Thank you."

The men regarded each other in silence. A significant moment passed between them, but John couldn't quite be sure of what it meant. Mycroft was such a guarded man at the best of times. Of course there were obvious resemblances between the two brothers, most evident being their shared skills of observation. But this man, though Holmes in name, held no essence of Sherlock within him. To John, Mycroft was just another man.

John walked him downstairs to the front door. He wanted his voice to speak up with words of condolences which flooded his mind. This man had just lost his brother, for God's sake. But John couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead he offered his hand, and Mycroft shook it fondly.

"I meant to thank you."

"What for?"

"For your help in the Bruce-Partington case. It was very much appreciated."

John shrugged away the gratitude. Mycroft still had hold of his hand. He held it firmly.

"You were a good friend, John. The very best I could have hoped he would make. And you have my thanks for that, also."

And with that, Mycroft Holmes exited 221b Baker St. John watched him climb with liquid grace into the back of a black car. He pushed the front door shut, and spent a moment tracing the wooden grain with his fingers.

"Who was that?"

John physically jumped.

"No-one. God, you're nosy." He pushed past his sister, and made his way quickly to the stairs.

"Don't be like that, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to call you a git."

"And a dick-head."

"Yeah, that too. Look, Jay, I just want to help you. Being cooped up in this big, empty house isn't good for you." She took his hand and he stopped his ascent of the stairs. "You're grieving. It's going to take time. Don't let it destroy you too, otherwise that psycho has really won."

John regarded her for a moment, before pulling her into a hug. He rested his chin on her head.

"Why did you guys do?" she asks into his chest.

"Hmm?"

"You know, when you weren't chasing mad men down darkened alleyways. What did you two do?"

She was asking about Sherlock. John didn't think he could answer. His mind was a flash of bright white where any memory had been moments before. He wanted to pull away, to run to his room, slam the door and bury his head under his pillow to drown out her question. But it was already in his ears, and her eyes were looking up at him quizzically. Maybe it might help. He took a deep breath.

"Uh...we sit."

"Sit?"

"Yeah. It's weirdly... calming. There's no awkward chit chat. I'm me and he is him... _Was_..." He falters. "Uh...sorry."

Harry took him by the hand and led him to the sofa.

"So let's sit."

The siblings lowered themselves onto the sofa, Harry resting her head on her brother's shoulder. After a while, her voice breaks the silence.

"Ok, this is dull."

John laughed, and the noise surprised himself. It never seemed dull. Not with Sherlock Holmes. Harry began playing with the cuff of her sleeve and John spoke up quietly.

"You should go, Harry."

"But I just got here."

"I know, and I appreciate you trying to help in your own irritating way." Her mouth opened in indignation but he continued. "But I think I need to be on my own. To deal with this on my own... Watson-style."

She gave a snort.

"You mean bury your head in the sand in the hope that it'll all go away?"

"That's _exactly_ what I mean."

"You're an idiot, John." He knew it was true. He'd been called it before. Harry rose from the sofa, and picked up her magazine from the coffee table.

"I love you," she murmured. A sure sign that she had out-stayed her welcome. John didn't know how to respond. He wasn't sure his heart was there anymore. Instead he simply smiled at her, and reciprocated in the only way he could show her how much he really loved her.

"Bugger off."

He wouldn't tell her though.

* * *

Thanks for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hello again. I don't know why I've had such trouble writing this chapter. It was really stressing me out. Thanks so much to those who have read, reviewed or added. Means a lot and has kept me going.

* * *

As he walked through the park in the balmy Saturday morning sunshine, John's mind turned to an argument they'd had a few weeks previously...

John had finally decided to hoover, having had Mrs Hudson pester him for far too long. _Him._ Not Sherlock. Irritation had begun to creep in and plant its roots in his belly.

John had started on the stairs, feeling perplexed at the trail of rice grains which flecked the staircase like a fairy tale trail. Why on earth there were grains of rice on the stairs, John had no idea. Sherlock would have a perfectly logical explanation, of course. In the kitchen the floor was grimy, and covered with a strange pale grey powder which John was uncertain of. He very much hoped it was nothing explosive, as he began to hoover it up. Stealing a glance through the large kitchen doors, he could see very little of his untidy flatmate apart from his feet, which were propped up on one of the sofa arms. Sherlock hadn't spoken to him in three days, and had moved very little from that spot.

The hoover continued to hum loudly, as John pushed it heavily around the kitchen floor. Suddenly, through the din of the hoover, he could hear the faint ringing of the land line phone. John glanced again at the sofa. The feet did not move. He clenched his jaw, and jabbed at the appliance's power button with more aggression than was necessary. Pacing to the ringing phone, he grabbed it from its holster.

"Yes? Hello?"

There was a moment's silence.

"Would you _please_ stop that incessant noise, Doctor Watson."

John lowered the phone to his side and spun around angrily. Sherlock Holmes' eyes remained closed, but his thumb pressed against his mobile phone which was then dropped heavily to the floor.

"Much appreciated," he smiled to the ceiling. John's eyes flashed in annoyance.

"Do it yourself then!" He marched back into the kitchen and began to wind the cord up.

"I'm sure you're doing a satisfactory job, John," came the voice from the sofa.

"Is that your way of saying you appreciate it?" John called back. Sherlock didn't answer. "You know, I won't be around to do your housework forever." Sherlock didn't answer straight away.

"In which case," he eventually told John, "I'll pay a cleaner to do it. At least I wouldn't have to hear them moaning about it all the time!" He rolled over towards the back of the sofa.

Sherlock heard angry footsteps up the stairs and John slamming his bedroom door. He actually gave a smile as he looked up at the ceiling, listening to his friend rummaging around his bedroom. What came next, however, had made him sit up suddenly from the sofa, his dark eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and his hair unkempt from days of pointless lounging.

The sound of a suitcase bouncing angrily on each step, echoed down the staircase. If Sherlock had been anxious, he made sure he didn't show it when John stormed into the room and grabbed his laptop. Sherlock adopted his original position, sprawled over the sofa, with a nonchalant expression masking his face.

"See you around," John snapped as he headed for the door.

"John, really! Not this again. This is the third time you've done this. I'm not going to fall for this ridiculous bluff," Sherlock said pointedly.

"It's not a bluff!"

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes!"

"Fine!" snapped Sherlock, rising quickly from the sofa and marching to John in the doorway. "Open your suitcase."

John scowled at his flatmate before pulling at the zip. The noise filled the silence between the two men, and John wrenched open the suitcase.

Sherlock's jaw nearly hit the floor. He'd been wrong. Wrong for the first time in a long while. Wrong about John.

"There are clothes in here," he stated pointlessly, bewilderment evident on his face.

"Yes."

"You're leaving?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, blinking in confusion. John lowered his shoulders slightly, feeling his defences begin to weaken, but he knew he couldn't cave.

"Because, Sherlock, I'm fed up of cleaning up after you and your obvious lack of gratitude. I'm fed up of being nagged at by Mrs Hudson about _your_ mess, because we can't possibly expect clever little Sherlock to waste his precious time doing things that we mere mortals are capable of. If you want to explode eyeballs in the microwave, then you clean the _fucking_ microwave! If you want to throw rice everywhere for no reason–"

"There was a reason!"

" –then you clear it up afterwards. If you want to go traipsing around London in the middle of the night then you take your bloody key with you! I'm fed up with you!" John crossed his arms over his chest to signal he had finished. He took a moment to study his friend's face and was both proud and sorry to realise he'd upset him. Mainly, he was impressed with himself.

"Are you done?" Sherlock scoffed at John. He nodded. "Good," and before John could realise what was happening, Sherlock was grabbing a handful of clothes and throwing them out of the suitcase.

"Oh look, more mess. Poor little John."

"Stop it!" John shouted, grabbing back at the clothes which were strewn on the floor, and wrestling Sherlock as he tightened his grip on a pair of old jeans.

"No, _you_ stop it," he bellowed back at him. "Having clothes in this suitcase doesn't make this any less of a bluff than the other times you've pulled this, quite frankly, petty stunt. If you wanted to leave John Watson, you'd have gone already."

"I'm leaving now!" John hissed insistently.

"No you're not," Sherlock answered snidely. "Because although you think you're unappreciated, which I may point out is not true, if you leave now you will never again find anyone who truly appreciates you as much as I do. Or, in fact, could bear to live with you! Quite frankly, John, you're a nightmare to live with."

John surprised himself with a laugh.

"You cannot be serious,"

"Quite serious."

John ran his hands over his face as he laughed at his ridiculous friend.

"Now who's bluffing?" he pointed out and Sherlock laughed, heartily. John laughed with him, and realised that being able to laugh with his best friend was worth the housework. Wasn't it?

As they picked the clothes up and shoved them back into the suitcase, Sherlock muttered something under his breath, and John frowned quizzically, asking him to repeat it.

"I'll buy the milk from now on," he muttered. "And I'll clean the microwave. Occasionally," he added. John smiled at him, knowing of course that it was just empty words. Sherlock had no intentions of buying milk. John wondered whether or not he'd missed his chance to escape, to run away from a life of decapitated heads in the fridge, and midnight violin lessons and countless phone calls while he was at work.

But of course John knew he couldn't live any other way. He couldn't function without Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

The sound of his crutch clicking in time with his own footsteps brought John out of the memory. He resented that walking stick, but felt strangely comforted by the feel of it in his hand, and so had decided to take it with him on his walk to the park. Up ahead he saw a woman, sat alone on a bench. She was tucking her strawberry blonde hair behind one ear as she looked up the pathway. A small smile reached her lips as she saw him nearer her.

"Hi," he greeted her quietly.

"Hi."

John sat down heavily next to Sarah Sawyer. The pair sat in silence for several minutes. John began to wish he'd asked her to a cafe, so he'd have something to do with his hands. He placed them on his walking stick, once again feeling comfort from having brought it with him.

"How are you?" he ventured, breaking the silence. She gave a scoff and turned to regard him.

John's body still showed the signs of trauma. He'd recently had the stitches removed from his above his eyebrow and the minor scrapes had healed into scabs. His ribs were still tender, and his right knee was heavily bruised from when he'd landed on it during the blast.

"You were in an explosion," she stated pointedly.

"Um...yes."

"And you're asking _me_ how I am? You should have been dead, John."

"I know," he said quietly. He braved a glance up at her and saw tears shining in her eyes. He wanted to kick himself, hard, for being an arse. But he felt nothing. No guilt. Nothing.

"Did you get my letter?" he asked. She laughed again, bitterly.

"If by letter you mean your notice of resignation, then yes, I did."

She was pissed off. And rightfully so. The last time he'd spoken to her had been the evening of the explosion. She had been expecting him at her flat, and he never showed up. He'd been too busy with a bomb strapped to his chest. Men could be so selfish sometimes.

"I'm sorry," he said lamely.

"Sorry? John, I haven't heard from you in three weeks! You disappeared that night off the face of the Earth and I was worried sick. I had to find out you were still alive by watching the news the next morning. Do you have any idea how that made me feel?"

"I'm sorry," he mumbled again.

"I thought you were dead," she sniffled, rubbing fiercely at her face. John couldn't look at her. He didn't want to admit that he'd caused those tears. Instead he gave a deep breath.

"Well...I'm here now."

"Yeah, you are."

Silence fell between the pair. John watched the people that passed through the park. He found himself trying to deduce who they were, where they were going or who they were running from.

Serial adulterer. Unknowingly pregnant. Cliff Richard fan.

John was amused by his own nonsense. For that was what it was. He couldn't tell a thing about them. How could he possibly know? They were strangers, travelling through a park, from A to B. And he was staying still.

"I'm sorry about Sherlock," Sarah's voice came quietly. He snapped from his reverie. "If you want to talk–"

"I don't."

"John, please."

"No, Sarah. All I've had in my head for the past 3 weeks, for the past 8 months in fact, is Sherlock this, and Sherlock that. Can I please just sit for one moment, and not have to think about him!" He regretted his heated tone, and wished his cheeks didn't feel so hot.

"It's probably for the best," she replied. John frowned. Instead of feeling please with her agreement he felt suddenly irked.

"What do you mean?"

Sarah blew a strand of hair from her face before explaining.

"You've been through a lot, John. And however much you pretend that it wasn't a big deal, it was. It _really_ was. Maybe now this is all over you can move away from all of that and just...be normal."

He blinked at her. She really didn't get it at all. He couldn't blame her, but he was cross that it hadn't occurred to her that he didn't want to be normal 'Doctor 9 to 5'.

"Look, don't be cross. What I'm trying to say is that I like you...a lot. And maybe we can seriously think about making a go of things."

"Now Sherlock's out of the picture?"

"I didn't say that," she snapped back defensively.

"No, but that's what you meant."

"Of course not! The man's dead, John."

"Don't!"

John threw his hands over his eyes and squeezed them shut tight. He thought of his little bedsit, after being brought home from Afghanistan. The little bed, and dodgy paint job and close walls that made him feel like he was a battered pair of loafers in a shoebox. He thought back to his therapy sessions, how Ella had smiled at him with mock interest when he'd told her he'd met someone that didn't make him feel useless anymore. And he recalled that moment in the lab at Barts, when Mike Stamford was bumbling about having left his phone in his coat pocket, and how he'd decided in a random act of kindness, to lend this stranger his phone because what harm could it do?

Sarah was talking to him, rambling in a vain attempt to turn the conversation around. He swallowed hard and opened his eyes, blinking at the sudden light.

"I can't do this Sarah, I'm sorry."

Her mouth hung open, mid-word and she blinked at him. He really was sorry. Sat beside him was a beautiful, intelligent, funny woman who liked him. A lot, apparently. But John knew that if she hadn't understood the relationship between him and Sherlock, then she didn't understand him at all. He wasn't relieved to be free from that life, just as he hadn't been relieved to leave the army. He missed that life, he missed Sherlock. He wanted everything back the way things were before that pale, trembling hand pulled the trigger and exploded John's life into a thousand pieces.

"I'm sorry," he repeated again. "I don't want to hurt you but I have to be honest. I'm not the man you want me to be. And I don't think I ever will be. No amount of explosions is going to change that. Maybe things would have been different if I'd never met Sherlock. But I did. I did meet him, and I wouldn't have changed that for anything. And if it ever came down to a choice between you or Sherlock then I would choose _him_...Every time."

Sarah recoiled, as if he'd physically struck her. Although his words seemed harsh even to his own ears, John immediately felt lighter within his stomach, as if he'd finally been hit with the realisation.

Pursing her lips together, Sarah rose abruptly from the bench. Her face was set, and she found the courage to meet his eyes as she spoke to him.

"I'm sorry for what happened to you." She began to walk away and then paused. "I hope you get over him one day, I really do. You're a good man, John."

He watched her walk away quickly until she was no longer in view. He was a good man. John knew it. He thought of Lestrade's words,

_Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And one day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one._

John realised the irony, with a stabbing pain of grief to his heart that he, himself, was a good man, and he had been waiting for Sherlock Holmes to make him into a great man.

He would keep waiting.

John never saw Sarah Sawyer again.

* * *

John had sat on the bench, alone, for several hours watching people move along in their daily business. When the wind picked up, sending a chill through him, he eventually made his way home, picking up a newspaper along the way.

That evening, John opened the newspaper to the housing section, and pored over the To Let notices. He felt incredibly torn. He knew he couldn't afford to keep living by himself in a two bedroom flat in Central London without a job. He also knew he could never bring himself to advertise for someone to share the flat with him. As long as he lived here he'd always be reminded of the nicotine patches, and bad coffee at 3am, the skull on the mantelpiece, the nasty arguments, the eyes in the microwave, the tuneless violin, and the boyish giggling for long periods of time simply because it was easier than to accept that they were in serious trouble. Without 221b, there would be no memory of Sherlock Holmes. This very thought filled John with both optimism and dread.

However, when Mrs Hudson came into the kitchen later that evening and caught him with the property page open, she broke down into hysterical sobs which made John feel like a terrible, terrible person. She babbled incoherently through her tears, and John stroked her hand affectionately until she calmed down.

"Don't...leave me...on my...own," she stammered with hitched breath. John winced and bit his lip. Of course he couldn't leave Baker Street. What had he been thinking?

"I'm sorry," he muttered lamely, yet again that day. "I guess I'm just having a bad day."

Mrs Hudson nodded in understanding and threw her arms around him. He kissed her on the top of her head.

"I'm not going to leave you," he said into her shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere."

Of course he wasn't. He was reliable, faithful John Watson. And once again, nothing would ever happen to him.

He was stuck.

As he made his way upstairs to bed that night, he saw the newspaper had been shoved in the rubbish bin. He sighed in frustration as he turned out the light.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: This was actually the beginning of a reeeally long chapter about the memorial service. It was way to long, so I've put this as it's own chapter.

Sincere apologies for the angstness in this story...but things have to get worse before they get better :-D

Thanks for reading, please let me know what you think.

* * *

It was raining. The sun had made a dismal attempt to rise that morning, but by 11am John noticed that the sky was darker than when he'd first risen from bed. He was sat on the edge of the wooden desk, staring at the window rather than out of it, watching the trails of water wash the glass pain. Mrs Hudson spoke, making him jump.

"Oh good, you _are_ up."

John cringed at the woman's surprised tone, having found him out of bed before midday. But he was jobless, penniless and friendless. And besides, Diagnosis Murder wasn't on until 2:15pm.

He offered her a smile over his shoulder. She wore a charcoal grey woollen dress, with thick dark grey tights, and silver shoes with large bows on the end. Her face, though smiling warmly at him, was blotchy and swollen. John couldn't bear to look at it so continued to look out of the window.

Since his obsessive blitz of the flat, Mrs Hudson had felt rather surplus to requirement. This morning, she decided to plump up the cushions on the sofa.

"Can I get you a cup of tea? When are you getting dressed? The taxi's booked for 1." She made her way around the room, searching for something to fuss over. "Oh, before I forget, you have some post."

This surprised John and he turned to look at her. She handed him a blue envelope. He recognised the handwriting immediately and placed it down on the desk beside him.

"Aren't you going to open it?" Mrs Hudson prompted curiously.

"It's from Harry," John told the window.

"Oh...ok." She lingered by his shoulder for a moment. "Do you need anything ironing for later?"

"No."

"Ok, dear."

He heard her turn on her heels and patter out of the room and down the stairs. John felt a knot of guilt fill his stomach. The woman had been a god-send, a rock, and John knew he wouldn't have gotten through the past few weeks without her. Seeing her face, tear-stained and agitated, should have prompted him to comfort her in the way that she had comforted him. But he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Sighing in frustration, he grabbed at the envelope next to him, and tore it open. On the front of the card, above a pink vase of white lilies, bore the silver words 'Thinking of You'. John gave a scoff and opened the card.

Jay,

How lame is this card! It was the best they had at the Co-op.

Just wanted you to know I haven't forgotten about you. I hope the service goes ok.

Give me a call if you need to.

Love you.

H x

John took another glance at the front of the card, before shoving it back into its envelope. He supposed he really should get dressed. But getting dressed implied a preparation for leaving the house. If he wasn't dressed, he wouldn't be able to leave the house, surely? Feeble logic, he mused.

Feeling uncomfortable sat on the wooden desk, he eventually moved. To his own surprise, instead of heading up the stairs to his room, his legs carried him down the corridor and stopped outside a closed door. His hand rested on the door handle, and before he could stop himself, he turned it. John was now standing in the doorway to Sherlock Holmes' bedroom.

The room was sparse. Sherlock had liked his clutter accessible within the kitchen and living room. The floorboards creaked under John's feet as he moved into the room, taking in the stillness of the air, the echoes of a dead man.

Without a thought, John threw open the doors to the wooden wardrobe, and regard its contents for a long moment. Several suits and shirts hung from the rail like body bags. John knew she'd never admit it, but Mrs Hudson had seen to the neatness of the wardrobe, he was sure of it.

Cool fabric ran through his fingers as he pulled at one of the shirts. Then something on the wardrobe floor caught his eye; a woollen blue scarf. John bent to pick it up. He sniffed in automatically, before looking around him consciously.

_John, you complete weirdo._

It smelt of coffee, and iodine, and something else that John couldn't quite put a finger on. Cigarettes? His lip pulled at a smile. Surely not!

Closing the wardrobe doors, John sat heavily down onto the bed, the scarf still held loosely in his hand. Tears prickled in his eyes, and he swallowed several times in an attempted to remove the lump in his throat.

_No, you won't do this. Not today. Get a grip!_

It was an hour later, when Mrs Hudson poked her head around the door, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"There you are! You're still not dressed. The taxi will be here in 20 minutes." She was fussing, but John let her. She was in her element. John dropped the scarf down on the bed as he was whisked away by his landlady, and ten minutes later he returned from his room looking respectable, if a little uncomfortable. He offered Mrs Hudson a weak smile. She burst into tears.

"Oh don't. Please don't. Look, let's just get through today, show our faces, then we can finish that bottle of Scotch, order some Chinese and watch Eastenders. Ok?"

This was John's attempted at comforting the sobbing woman, and it seemed to do the trick. She nodded her head as she searched in her small handbag for a tissue, while attempting to arrange her features in a brighter expression.

A car horn was heard and the pair froze. Mrs Hudson began to walk with purpose to the top of the stairs.

"Come along, John," she said in a voice which was much stronger than he was expecting. He paused, his limbs not willing to move. Suddenly he crossed the room, reaching out for something.

"For Heaven's sake, John. Put that thing down at once." Mrs Hudson's voice was sharp and clipped, and John felt himself recoil. He looked down at the object in his hand. His walking stick. His landlady marched towards him as he chewed on his lip in thought. "You don't need it. If only he could see you now, with that thing in your hand, he'd strike your kneecaps with it until you _would_ need it after all!" She was right, of course. Her cheeks were flushed with exasperation. John lowered the stick down with a sigh.

"I'm sorry," he muttered quietly. Mrs Hudson's face softened and she took his arm. The pair headed down the stairs towards their waiting taxi.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Hello, and welcome to what feels like the longest chapter I've ever written. Thanks again to those who have read, reviewed and added. It's so encouraging! This is a depressing chapter. The next one's already written and I'll upload in a few days. Strange things are about to happen to John.

There's a poem in this chapter by Henry Scott-Holland, as well as a mention of Pachelbel and a few lines from 'A Study in Pink'. Obviously, if you recognise anything, then it isn't mine.

When I wrote this chapter, and indeed this whole story, I've been inspired by the song 'You Walk With Me', which is a beautiful male duet from the Broadway soundtrack of The Full Monty. If you have Spotify or similar, then I suggest you have a listen. It sums up how I feel about Sherlock and John's friendship. Anyway... Onwards...

* * *

The car pulled up at the kerb outside a beautiful Victorian building with white steps which led to dark wood doors with shiny brass fittings. John thought it was both the most elegant and ominous placed he'd ever seen. Suddenly, his limbs didn't want to work anymore. He stumbled out of the taxi, which drove off steadily. John swallowed hard.

Mrs Hudson walked briskly up the steps and pulled at the heavy door. John's hands felt heavy by his sides, and they began to tingle. He put it down to a lack of oxygen and decided to breathe more often. He hurried up the steps after Mrs Hudson, and the pair entered a large reception room. The room was bright, with a high ceiling, and blood-red carpet. Several paintings hung on the walls.

John was genuinely surprised at the number of people gathered in various social clusters. He scanned the crowd, looking for any familiar faces. Lestrade was there, of course, looking incredibly formal in black. John thought that the man had aged considerably since he'd last seen him. There was also the man that owned the restaurant, who always spoke so highly of Sherlock. What was his name? John screwed up his face in effort of recollection. Angelo. Angelo with his restaurant on Northumberland Street. Angelo with his beard and his big grin. Angelo with his candles on the table. John wouldn't have known of this man at all, any of the people in the room, had it not been for Sherlock Holmes.

It was obvious, from the amount of people present, that not all were here to celebrate the memory of Sherlock Holmes. John knew full well that there must be at least a handful of criminal associates, coming to see for certain that the infamous man was truly gone. He hoped they'd be satisfied after today.

Beside the well-stocked bar, which ran along one wall of the room, John saw the man from the bank, which had gone to University with Sherlock. He couldn't remember the man's name, but as the banker laughed heartily with his companions, John remembered he'd formed the opinion that the man was a bit of a dick-head.

John scanned the room looking for the familiar, looming presence of Mycroft Holmes. He spotted him, hurrying through a set of double doors at the far side of the room. Mycroft look drawn and pale, his face a strange shade of grey that John had never witnessed before. He looked like a man under a huge strain. The weakness was gone in a flash, replaced with a welcoming smile as he made his way socially around the room. John probably wouldn't have seen the man's anguish if he hadn't been so used to reading Holmesian expressions. As Mycroft passed, he neither looked at nor spoke to John, but placed a hand on the man's shoulder so briefly that it wouldn't have been noticed by anyone. John felt the weight of his touch long after he'd walked away.

Suddenly, people were being ushered into the next room, through the double doors. John didn't feel ready. He hadn't prepared himself enough for going in. His ears suddenly rang, and he felt himself becoming clammy. He ushered Mrs Hudson towards the door, mumbling that he'd just be a moment. On bandy legs, he made his way hurriedly to the men's toilets where he threw himself onto the cold tiled floor and was sick into the nearest toilet bowl. He paused there for a moment, allowing his heart rate to slow, before rising and heading to the sink, where he splashed his face with cold water.

_Get a grip! _

Taking a few deep breaths, he walked steadily back through the emptying reception room towards the memorial room. This room was equal in size to the previous room, with frosted windows lining opposite walls. As John walked down the aisle between the rows of wooden chairs, he felt as if he were above himself, looking down on the scene in the dreamlike glow of the room. His limbs moved slowly, as if he were wading through water. From a speaker on the wall, violin strings played Pachelbel's Canon in D major. John smirked. Sherlock hated Pachelbel. It was a wry move on Mycroft's part.

John found Mrs Hudson, who'd taken up a seat on the end of a row. He shuffled past her to sit next to her, knowing she'd done it deliberately, probably to stop him from doing a runner. As John's eyes fell to the front of the room he noticed, to his horror, a striking white coffin with brightly polished silver fittings, stood on a dais. He actually groaned aloud. Why on earth had Mycroft felt the need to display a coffin? It was so...theatrical. Though John knew it was empty, it still made him feel uncomfortable. He tore his eyes away from it, as an officiator began to speak.

"Good afternoon and welcome. Thank you for attending the memorial service of Mr Sherlock Holmes. I didn't have the pleasure of making Sherlock's acquaintance, but having spoken to his brother, and indeed some of you this afternoon, I am understanding that he was a very unique man, one who was dedicated to his work as a private detective."

"Consulting," mumbled John under his breath.

"What?" Mrs Hudson whispered.

"Consulting detective. He was a consulting detective," John said under his breath. Mrs Hudson placed a hand on his arm, but focused her attention towards the speaker.

John sighed inwardly. This man didn't know Sherlock at all. Of course, he only had himself to blame. He had refused to speak today, after all. And what was the real harm in mis-communicating a few minor details. Nobody in this room cared that Sherlock's favourite colour was purple, that he like Marmite, that he wore odd socks and that he took his coffee with two sugars. But John had cared about the minor details, and Sherlock Holmes had thrived on them.

The officiator was welcoming Mycroft to the front on the room, and John felt that he really should pay attention. The officiator smiled warmly at Mycroft as he headed to the dais. Mycroft paused for a long moment, and surveyed the room with a theatrical air, before clearing his throat to speak.

"There are only two people," he told them, "that truly knew and understood my brother Sherlock. I wasn't fortunate enough to be one of them. One of which was our dear mother who spent much of her life in awe at this unique person that she herself had created. He was devastated the day that she died, and he swore that he'd never love another woman again. I believe he kept that promise. The second person is, naturally, sat in this room today. But he will not speak. I would so dearly like for you to know my brother better, so instead of this man telling you about my brother, I will perhaps explain to you how Sherlock felt about him.

"My brother was not an easy man to coincide with. I lived with him for many years and would not wish that upon any of you. He was an extremely intelligent man, who although was exceedingly observant, found great difficulty in functioning within society. Imagine then, to my great pleasure, when he found someone to anchor him, and make him a better person; a _good_ person. Sherlock was so obsessed about how other people existed, that he was both astounded and quietly content to find a person that was willing to teach _him_ how to exist.

"Sherlock, as I'm sure you are all aware, had very little difficulty in making enemies, but he had extreme difficulty in making friends. Sherlock was incredibly lucky to have found the one person in the world who thought he was worth staying around for."

There was something dark and heavy that passed over Mycroft's eyes. He seemed unsure of how to convey his next words. He swallowed hard.

"Sherlock was a very unlikable human being. But one person liked him for who he was, and that was something new to him. It meant the world to him. And it means the world to me. So, thank you."

He moved with speed from the podium and back to his seat at the front of the room. John licked his lips and tasted blood, realising he'd been biting down too hard. Mrs Hudson had been squeezing his left hand so tightly, while wiping at her face with a soggy tissue. His fingers were numb, but he was pleased for her hand being there. It stopped his hand from trembling. The officiator gave his token smile and welcomed, to John's surprise, Detective Inspector Lestrade to the front of the room. Several members of the audience bristled at the sight of the Detective. Lestrade, who had spoken in front of many a press conference, suddenly looked uncomfortable at the thought of speaking at the service. He cleared his throat.

"Many people within this city will know who I am," he began, "but not enough people will know the name Sherlock Holmes; people who _should_ know his name. When Mr Holmes asked me to speak today, I was unsure of what to say. I know there are people out there, and indeed in this very room, who would only be interested in knowing that he's really gone. But there are also people out there, and in this room, who need to know how truly brilliant he was. There are people who owe that man their lives, for the crimes in which he has solved, and indeed prevented. I personally, would like to share my gratitude on behalf of those people. Sherlock didn't do it for the gratitude, don't get me wrong. He was incredibly pompous about it in fact, and quite frankly a pain in the arse. He did it because he was good at it, and he thought it was bloody good fun! But all of this doesn't mean that he didn't deserve our gratitude. I don't think there's anyone in this room who can honestly say that their lives haven't been changed, either for better or worse, by knowing this man. I know I certainly wouldn't be the man I am today without Sherlock Holmes. And there are people in this city and beyond who will say the same thing. And that is something pretty amazing, I reckon."

With these words, the Inspector returned to his seat. Finally, Mycroft was invited back up for a reading.

"My brother had a morbid fascination with his own death, from a very young age. In fact, he chose this himself," Mycroft told them all with a smile. "It is named Death Is Nothing At All, by Henry Scott-Holland. And I read this, not for Sherlock, but for John."

John fought the huge urge to sink down into his seat. There were, in fact, very few people in the crowded room that knew that he was John, so he decided to keep his eyes focused on the front, and pretend that he couldn't feel several pairs of eyes gaping at the back of his head.

"Death is nothing at all,  
I have only slipped away into the next room.  
I am I and you are you,  
Whatever we were to each other,  
That we are still.  
Call me by my old familiar name,  
Speak to me in the easy way you always used,  
Put no difference into your tone,  
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.  
Laugh as we always laughed,  
At the little jokes we always enjoyed together.  
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.  
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.  
Let it be spoken without effort,  
Without the ghost of a shadow in it.  
Life means all that it ever meant.  
It is the same as it ever was.  
There is absolute unbroken continuity.  
What is death but a negligible accident?  
Why should I be out of mind,  
Because I am out of sight?  
I am waiting for you for an interval,  
Somewhere very near,  
Just around the corner.  
All is well.  
Nothing is past; nothing is lost.  
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.  
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!"

The room crackled with silence.

John was vaguely aware of Mycroft uttering his thanks, and the people ushering out of the room. He heard Mrs Hudson's voice by his ear, calling his name.

"In a minute," he replied, in a voice which didn't quite sound like his own. The woman squeezed his shoulder. Suddenly the room fell silent. John was alone.

He placed his hands on the chair in front, and rested his forehead on his hands, looking down at his shoes. His ears rang from the blood which pumped in them. His chest burned with a sob which he was desperately fighting to keep in.

"What the hell are you doing to me?" he asked out loud.

John thought back to when they'd just met, and he'd chased Sherlock through the damp streets of London, seemingly for no point whatsoever.

"_That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."  
"And _you_ invaded Afghanistan."  
"That wasn't _just_ me!"_

He had giggled, uncontrollably at the situation around him. And as he'd laughed, somehow the barrier of 'stranger' had fallen, and he'd found himself stood next to a friend.

John wasn't laughing anymore.

He thought of the poem Mycroft had just read.

_One brief moment and all will be as it was before.  
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again._

John wished with all his heart that he could believe those words. Wiping tears which he hadn't realised had fallen, he rose and with deep breaths he headed for the reception room.

The hubbub of the reception room hit John in the face, and he winced at the volume of voices. He was pleased to see that very few people had acknowledged his presence. Mrs Hudson stood, looking agitated in the corner of the room. John made his way over to her. She pulled him into a fierce embrace.

"Oh," she sighed emotionally into his shoulder. "I'm so proud of you."

"I haven't done anything," John mumbled.

"We both know that isn't true."

They were broken apart by a voice from behind them.

"John."

John frowned at the young woman, and barely recognised her through her grief-stricken face, stained with mascara.

"Molly," he exclaimed in surprise. Mrs Hudson, looked between the pair, and excused herself. Molly's dark hair had been chopped into a straight bob around her face, which only highlighted how much weight she'd lost over a short space of time. She trembled as she took a step forwards, and John had to put a hand out to steady her.

"I just wanted to say, I'm _so_ sorry for everything that's happened to you." She began to sob, incredibly loudly. John, not knowing what else to do, pulled her in to an awkward hug, looking around at the various spectators who had halted their conversations.

"Do you...want to get some air?" John suggested, and led Molly out through the main doors to the street outside.

"It feels like I'm living in some sort of nightmare," she babbled to him as they walked down the steps. "I'm just waiting to wake up, and every day that passes just makes me realise that I'm not going to; that this is real. That I was a part of it!"

John swallowed hard, expecting the inevitable. She was going to talk about _him_; Moriarty.

"I had no idea, John, you have to believe me!"

"I do, Molly."

"A-and Sherlock's gone a-and it is all m-my fault."

"No, Molly," John snapped at her, making her jump. He was sorry for it. He wasn't angry at her, but at the person who had put them all through this. "This isn't your fault in _any_ way. He used you to get to Sherlock. You're as much a victim as any of those poor people were. As much as Sherlock was." He didn't want to upset her. He knew his words were harsh. But he had a feeling deep down that these words would be easier to deal with than the guilt that was tearing away at this poor woman.

He let his words wash over her, and something changed in her expression. She took several deep breaths. When she next spoke, her voice was much stronger.

"I had a little crush on him, you know."

John gave a chuckle. _Little_ crush?

"I know."

"Oh." She genuinely seemed surprised. Bless her, John thought. Poor Molly Hooper; whose heart had been broken by a sociopathic, consulting detective and whose mind had been ruined by a psychopathic, consulting criminal. These people had seen her coming!

"Do you think he knew?" she ventured, and John smiled warmly at her.

"Molly, he knew everything."

Molly managed a smile back, stretching her tearstained cheeks.

As they turned to go back into the building, Molly placed a hand on John's arm. He looked at her, and she was studying him with a look of compassion and admiration.

"What is it?"

"It's just...I knew you two worked together. I knew you lived together. But I didn't realise until today that you were his best friend." She smiled at him tearfully before heading inside.

John found Mrs Hudson again, finishing a glass of wine. He suspected it wasn't her first.

"We should probably go," he announced, feeling incredibly drained. She nodded her agreement and took his arm.

They headed for the door and walked past Lestrade, who was talking to someone that'd obviously met before, no doubt on a past case. Lestrade nodded to John as he passed, and John nodded back, knowing with a sudden weight in his stomach that he would probably never see the man again. Who would hire the monkey without the organ grinder?

As they neared the door, John caught Mycroft's eye. He saw the man excuse himself from his current conversation, and meet them at the door.

"Thank you, both of you, for coming today," he said sincerely, kissing Mrs Hudson on the cheek, and then grasping John's hand in a warm shake.

"Thank you," John replied. "For everything you said. It...it meant a lot."

"You, dear John, have the patience of a saint, and are the most dependable man I think I have ever met. I don't think I could ever repay you for all you've done for my brother. You will have my constant gratitude." His eyes shone. "This country needs more men like you. If you ever want a job, don't hesitate to ask." He smiled warmly and John returned it, hoping to God that he was joking.

"We will see each other again, John Watson."

He wished them both a safe journey, and submersed himself into the crowded room.

"Come on John," said Mrs Hudson lightly. "Let's go home."

* * *

As they sat in front of Eastenders that night, John picking at his Kung Po chicken, while Mrs Hudson dozed next to him, her head on his shoulder, John decided that today was the day when things had to change.

He would no longer take two mugs out of the cupboard in the morning by mistake. He would no longer be a scarf sniffer. He didn't want to be the person that people like Lestrade would think back to in years to come:

_Remember that man who used to run around after that sociopath?  
...No._

And he would not cry anymore!

It was twenty minutes later, when he was wiping his eyes uncontrollably at the end of Eastenders, that he admitted it was going to be a lot harder than he thought.

Maybe he'd keep hold of the scarf a little longer...


	6. Chapter 6

John Watson lay heavily on his back, watching the light bounce off the bedroom ceiling. He felt as though the silence which surrounded him was almost physically pushing him down onto the mattress. With every thought about moving, his limbs became heavier. It was early in the morning. John was in such a meditative state, that he couldn't be certain he'd slept at all. He shut his eyes and let out a deep breath. Somewhere, further down in the house, he heard Mrs Hudson shuffling about, and the sound of the front door closing with a bang. He was now truly alone.

Sitting up suddenly, he decided to face the day. He planned to go shopping, the cupboards were getting bare, and maybe even go in search of a new job. Although he didn't really seem in the right frame of mind to portray himself as employable, John knew that he had to get a new job at some point. Mrs Hudson couldn't force him to live there for free forever.

After washing, and dressing, John felt a little bit more positive. Munching on a cream cracker which he'd found in the back of the cupboard, he made his way down the stairs and into the daylight. The weight on his chest seemed to ease somewhat as he left the house behind him, and John wasn't sure why.

John planned to go to Somerfield on Edgware Road, but decided to use a cash machine on the way. Squinting in the bright light, John could hardly make out the display on the screen. He pressed a button, hoping for the cash option and it printed out a mini-statement. He let out a growl.

"No! Stupid thing!"

John thought about the last time he could have possibly printed a statement at a machine; everything was done online these days. He screwed it up and shoved it in his pocket, not wanting to be reminded of his dwindling funds. Eventually taking cash out of the machine, John made his way to the shops.

Once there, he wandered round the aisles, trying to remember what it was he'd come for. Cooking for one seemed pointless. He found himself at the frozen meals aisle and stopped in his tracks. Meals for one. It was then that he found his throat closing up, and his eyelashes fighting back tears. His body was disobeying every order that his mind shouted to it; _Stop crying in the middle of Somerfield, you look completely mental! Pick something off the shelf and move! _But John didn't move. He stood there with an empty basket, tears rolling down his cheeks. He hadn't cried since the memorial, and thought that maybe he was doing well, that he was moving on. Apparently he wasn't. Apparently even going to the supermarket was emotionally challenging. Suddenly, he was startled by a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you ok, Sir?" a young shop assistant asked in concern. John laughed, a little too manically for his own liking, and wiped frantically at his face.

"Yeah." He cleared his throat. "It's just you're out of Chicken Korma." The woman blinked at him. "Uh, sorry. I'm just...joking. I'm gonna go." He handed the empty basket to the woman, and she watched him walk away and out of the shop.

John couldn't bring himself to buy frozen meals for one. He couldn't bring himself to buy milk anymore. No one was there to drink it. It would just go off, and John would throw it away. A waste. Like a lot of things in John's life. He put his hands in his pockets and headed back towards Baker Street.

"Oi, mate. You dropped something," came a voice behind him and he looked around. On the floor behind him was the scrunched up statement from his pocket. John nodded his thanks to the stranger and gave a wary smile before picking it up. His fingers played at the edges of the paper, and before he knew it he was opening it up. As he studied the paper his face fell, stunned, as he saw the most recent transaction on his statement.

Credit – Cheque – £5000.

John realised his jaw was open, and clicked it shut. Where the hell had £5000 come from? Folding the statement with more care this time, John began to walk with purpose towards Oxford Street.

* * *

The bank was fairly busy, and John had to wait in a queue to speak to someone about his query. He tapped his foot in agitation, knowing that it wouldn't help.

"Who's next please?"

"Uh, hi. I've just printed off a statement and it shows that I've been credited with £5000, and I'm not sure where it's come from."

The woman behind the counter offered John a tight smile, clearly not as baffled as he was by the situation. She asked him for his details and he handed over his card. Moments later, she looked up from her screen.

"I've found it here. The cheque was cleared into your account four days ago."

"But who put it there?" John urged.

"The payment was made in the name of Holmes."

John felt as though he'd been hit over the head by something heavy. His ears began to ring.

"Is everything ok, Sir?"

"Fine," John said curtly, setting his jaw. "Thanks for your help."

* * *

John couldn't tell how long he'd sat in the reception area. The room felt oppressive and dark with wooden panelling covering the walls. The furniture was dark oak and heavy. John had been there before, of course, but had never had the time to appreciate what a hideous pattern the office had on its carpet. Or even the deafening tick of an over-loud clock above the doorway. The woman behind the desk would look up at regular intervals and offer him a tight but polite smile, before looking back to her computer. This time, however, she spoke.

"Are you sure it's urgent? I could book an appointment at a later date, if it's more convenient?"

"Today is fine," John replied. Moments later, the door to the main office swung open dramatically, and a tall man entered the room.

"Doctor Watson! Well, this is unexpected."

"Is it?" John countered as the man shook his hand.

"Why, yes of course."

Mycroft Holmes ushered John into his large office, and shut the door firmly behind them. He offered John a seat.

"What can I do for you, John?" he asked pleasantly, a smile forming on his face. John faltered.

"It's about the cheque," he began.

"Cheque?"

"Yes, and while I appreciate your support, I really don't feel comfortable taking your money. I didn't want it in the past, and I don't want it now."

Mycroft didn't respond, but John could feel his eyes poring over him. He knew that the perceptive man would notice the loss of weight, the tired eyes, and the nick on his chin where he'd cut himself while shaving when he hadn't really been bothered to do so. John also knew that Mycroft Holmes would never mention these things.

John decided to use the moment to examine the man sat before him. Mycroft seemed brighter since John had last seen him some weeks ago. The cloud of worry that had darkened his eyes appeared to have dissolved somewhat. He didn't seem agitated or insulted by John's comment however. In fact, John almost spotted a hint of confusion. It was gone as quick as it came.

Mycroft inhaled loudly and leant back in his chair.

"I'm ashamed that I haven't seen you since the memorial service. I had meant to drop by and see how things were. It's been very busy here. I am sorry for that. I understand that you're thinking of moving house?"

John looked at him stunned. He opened and closed his mouth several times, until he'd decided on the right words.

"It was an idea. It didn't last long."

"Good." Mycroft genuinely looked pleased. His face broke into a broad smile.

"Is that why you gave me the money?" John asked hesitantly. Mycroft's smile didn't falter.

"I'd stay where you are, John. It really is a lovely house." He leant forward and stared at John meaningfully.

"Uh...right."

And suddenly John was being ushered to the door.

"I _will_ see you again John. Thank you for the visit. Please take care."

The door was shut behind him and John stood agape for a moment as the realisation dawned that he hadn't got any of the responses he'd hoped for. Typical Holmes! He gave the secretary a disgruntled look as he left the office with a march.

* * *

John arrived back home early evening, feeling exhausted. He'd left the house that morning with the plan to buy food, and hours later he'd come home with nothing. Nothing except for £5000 in his bank account. John felt sick at the thought of being a charity case. He was determined not to touch the money... if he could really help it.

"Is that you, love?" came a voice from down the hall.

"Yes, it's only me," John replied despondently. Mrs Hudson greeted him with a grin as she popped her head around the door.

"I've put a lasagne in your freezer," she called to him. John's heart gave a little flutter at the act of kindness.

_So you'll accept a lasagne but not £5000? Bit of a difference in scale there, John!_

He thanked his landlady and trundled upstairs. The lights were off in the flat, and the room was filled with dusky light from the windows. Before switching the lights on, John crossed the room to the window and pulled the curtains shut. He stood there, in the dark, feeling oddly safe. Mycroft was right about the house. There was nowhere else John would rather be than 221b Baker Street. Shuffling his way towards the light switch, he flicked it on, before heading to the kitchen to put the kettle on. _No milk!_ John sighed and took the lasagne out of the freezer. He stared at it. It was huge. He thought about asking Mrs Hudson up to share it with him. Popping it in the oven, he heaved a sigh before deciding to watch television while it heated. Midway through looking for the remote John stopped dead in his tracks.

His eyes had landed on it by accident. John swallowed hard and reached out a hand.

There, on the mantelpiece, was a human skull.

A shudder ran through his entire body. It wasn't the same skull...was it? But John fingered the eye socket and sure enough found the chip which he'd caused weeks before when he'd knocked it from its resting place. Sherlock had been furious with him. With a trembling hand, John placed it back with a thud, and moved with quivering legs down the stairs. He knocked on the door.

"Everything ok, love? John, look at the state of you!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed with a laugh. "You look like you've seen a ghost!"

John cleared his throat, wishing for words to form in his mouth.

"That bag. The stuff. I gave it to Lestrade to throw away. What happened to it?"

Mrs Hudson smiled apologetically.

"Don't be cross with me, dear, but you were in a sorry state that night, and I thought you might regret it afterwards so I took it from the Inspector. I've put it in storage in the basement."

John's heart was beating quickly in his chest. He needed to sit down.

"I've upset you haven't I."

"What? No, it's just...the skull–" he was cut off with a groan.

"Uh, that dreaded thing. I never understood why he was so fond of it. I guess I never will." She laughed sadly. "What about it?"

"It's on the mantelpiece."

Mrs Hudson's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Well what's it doing there? Last time I saw it, it was downstairs." She chewed on her lip as she mused the situation.

"Are you sure you didn't put it back?" John pressed. She laughed again.

"Of course not. Vile thing. The mystery of Sherlock's moving skull and he's not even here to solve it." She smiled sadly at the irony, and patted John on the arm before heading back to her rooms.

Once upstairs, John turned off the oven. He was no longer hungry. A pang of something else filled his stomach instead. Loneliness. John moved without thinking, and reached out to the skull, caressing its cool dome with his thumb before placing it in the grey leather armchair. Sitting in his own armchair, he stared across the room at the skull until his eyes stung from concentration and emotion. Then he began to talk. If it was good enough for Sherlock Holmes, it was good enough for John Watson.

John sat, and stared, and talked. The sun rose. It was morning.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Here is the final chapter. Thank you so much to all who've read, reviewed and added this story. It's helped me to keep going with it. I'm sad to see it end, but I'm pleased with it. I hope you are too.

K x

* * *

It was 3:27am when John woke suddenly from a dream which he'd forgotten on wakening. His t-shirt felt clammy against his skin, and he lay there in a state between slumber and consciousness, listening to the sounds that the old house made around him. He had been so used to waking at this time to the soft notes of a violin rising from the floor below. Now, John listened to the house playing its own tune of eerie silence.

John tried to swallow but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rose, stretching his stiff limbs in the process. John shuffled down the staircase in the dark, using the banister in place of his crutch which lay discarded somewhere on the living room floor. He made his way through the door frame, flicked the light switch and then froze on the spot. He let out an involuntary yelp.

"Hello, John."

The words filled the room and lingered. John blinked at the harsh light and silently cursed his brain for not moving as fast as he would have liked. He took several tentative steps into the room, his eyes never leaving the figure sat in the grey leather armchair. A violin lay elegantly in the man's lap. As John grew nearer, the man rose from the chair to his full height. John's chest constricted tightly, and a knot twisted in his stomach with such intensity that he nearly cried out in pain. The man before him studied him closely, a small smile playing on his lips. Suddenly John found himself moving in a reaction that surprised even himself. He pulled back his arm and punched the man, hard, in the face.

"Bloody hell, John!" cried Sherlock Holmes. "What was that for?"

John stood there, trembling in shock, his knuckles throbbing tenderly and his skin warm from the contact. Both men stood for a long moment, regarding each other. John was the first to break.

"I'll get you some ice," he murmured. His visitor followed and sat himself down on a kitchen chair. John handed him some ice, enveloped in a folded tea-towel. He refused to make eye contact.

"I see you went food shopping."

"You bastard."

"And you washed up!"

"You _bastard!"_ John shouted, making his throat raw. He fetched himself a glass of water, and drank it slowly. He wanted to drown in it.

Of course, there had been a tiny corner in John's heart that had known the truth, but the rest of it had ached so terribly that it had been easier to let his head think what it wanted. Despite the obvious facts; no body found, the large sum of money that turned up in his account, the skull. All pointing to a fact that John didn't want to believe: That Sherlock Holmes was still alive. He had wanted to grieve for his friend, to feel a loss that would never be healed. Because grief was so much kinder than anger and resentment and rage. And those were the things that John would feel if he had accepted the truth; that Sherlock Holmes was off on another grand adventure and that he, John Watson, had been left behind.

He suddenly thought of Mycroft. Had he known? Of course he had. The intense fear of his younger brother's safety was easily mistaken for grief. People saw what they expected to see. John certainly had.

"Why did you do it?" His voice seemed loud in the kitchen. He wanted to make it louder but his throat wouldn't allow it. Behind him, he could almost hear Sherlock Holmes frown.

"Do what?"

John's breath staggered, and he struggled to say the two words which pained him so much.

"Leave me. Why did you...leave me?"

"John, you know why."

"I want to hear you say it." It was late, early, and John rubbed at his tired eyes. He turned to face the man. "Why did you leave, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rose from his seat in agitation.

"Because it's not safe..._We're_ not safe...I _have_ to stop him. Don't you see John, I have the upper hand. If he finds out I'm alive...I just need time..." he trailed off, running his hand through his hair. John noticed he needed a haircut. "I shouldn't have come."

"Why did you come?" John asked in a little voice, almost in the hope that he wouldn't hear and therefore fail to give the answer that John didn't want to hear.

"I missed you," Sherlock replied. It was neither heartfelt nor emotional. Sherlock Holmes was merely stating a fact. Something inside John cracked at that moment, and he began to feel his resentment ebb away. He blinked back tears.

"Let me help you, Sherlock," he pleaded. Sherlock's eyes darkened.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's _you_, John! John Watson with a bloody bomb strapped to his chest! And I honestly don't think I could go through that again. When you're in danger I panic, and when I panic I make mistakes. I can't afford to do that John. With James Moriarty there can be _no_ mistakes." Sherlock's voice had risen to a bellow, and John decided to bring it down with his own response.

"I thought you didn't care about anybody."

"Wrong!" Sherlock stated pointedly. "I don't care about 'people'. People are trivial and dull and most don't deserve their pathetic existence on this rock. But you are not 'people' John. You are brilliant John Watson. My dear John Watson." He grabbed John's head roughly in his hands and pressed his cool forehead against John's own.

"I will finish him. This I promise you. And then I'll come back for you, my friend, because we are far from done here." He planted a kiss roughly on John's forehead, before letting go and marching to the doorway.

"Goodbye, John," Sherlock said swiftly. "Look after my skull. Oh, and try to refrain from throwing any more of my things away." He offered John a wry smile, and John tried to return it but couldn't quite manage it. He heart had become heavy once more. With that, Sherlock Holmes was gone.

John sat in the silent kitchen for a long while, letting his friend's words wash over him. His head was spinning. Eventually he rose, and went to the living room to switch the lights off. His hand faltered over the switch. There, on John's armchair, sat a white carrier bag. John frowned as he moved to it, to regard its contents. Inside, John discovered two items; A bottle of milk and a can of beans. John laughed, loudly, feeling hot tears roll down his cheeks.

"About bloody time!"

The next morning, when John awoke, he remained perched on the edge of the bed for some time. Doubt had begun to creep into his mind. He often dreamt of Sherlock, and the things he might say to his friend if he ever got the chance again. Had Sherlock really been there at all?

His doubt was washed away by the sound of his own genuine laughter minutes later, as he was greeted in the living room by a bright fluorescent face, grinning jovially from the living room wall.

Sherlock Holmes would return to 221b Baker Street.

And the game was far from over...


End file.
